“You have some ranch on your glasses,” I tell him. He freezes, then slowly turns to meet my eyes. “I imagine I do,” he says icily. “You’re not going to clean them? You just don’t seem like a guy who wants buttermilk ranch rusting his hinges.” His left eye twitches. “I’ll take care of it once I’m home.” “Gotcha.” I pop the last nugget in my mouth. “Are those dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets?” he asks. “And if they are?” He clears his throat. “Surprising choice for an adult’s meal. Then again, your vegetable is a solitary baby carrot drowning in ranch. Perhaps your regard for nutrition is like
...more
John liked this
